to the very end, Mrs. Peckover became aware of a knocking at the
front-door. She bade her daughter go and see who it was. Clem,
speedily returning, beckoned her mother from among the guests.

'It's somebody wants to know if there ain't somebody called Snowdon
livin' 'ere,' she whispered in a tone of alarm. 'An old man.'

Mrs. Peckover never drank more than was consistent with the perfect
clearness of her brain. At present she had very red cheeks, and her
cat-like eyes gleamed noticeably, but any kind of business would
have found her as shrewdly competent as ever.

'What did you say?' she whispered savagely

'Said I'd come an' ask.'

'You stay 'ere. Don't say nothink.'

Mrs. Peckover left the room, closed the door behind her, and went
along the passage. On the doorstep stood a man with white hair,
wearing an unusual kind of cloak and a strange hat. He looked at the
landlady without speaking.

'What was you wantin', mister?'

'I have been told,' replied the man in a clear, grave voice, 'that a
child of the name of Snowdon lives in your house, ma'am.'

'Eh? Who told you that?'